Lionheart A Novel - By Sharon Kay Penman Page 0,327

tell him that if I said it, I will honor my word. And tell him to say this to Saladin—that I accept the terms and understand that if I receive any compensation for Ascalon, it will be because of his generosity and bounty.”

The envoy was ushered out, obviously greatly relieved that there was to be no eleventh-hour surprise. By unspoken assent, the other men left, too; only Henri and André remained. “This is my fault, Uncle,” Henri said unhappily. “André insisted that we ought not to ask you until your fever broke. But I feared to wait—”

“It is your kingdom, Henri. It was your decision to make as much as mine.” Richard could not remember ever feeling so exhausted or so disheartened. “I need to sleep now. . . .” He hoped it would come soon, stilling the questions he could not answer, the insidious voice asking what he’d truly accomplished here. So many deaths, and all for what?

WHEN RICHARD AWOKE, it was still light, so he could only have slept for an hour or so. One of his doctors was quickly hovering over the bed, asking if he would like some soup or fruit. He made himself say yes, for he knew he had to eat to regain his strength. He was frightened by his weakness; it was as if he’d become trapped in a stranger’s body, not the one that had served him so well for nigh on thirty-five years. A quartan fever recurred every third day, so he ought to be feverfree today, but he was not. If he died here at Jaffa, what would become of his kingdom? What of Berenguela, left a young widow in a foreign land so far from home? Or Joanna? Had he lost the Almighty’s Favor by failing to take Jerusalem? Ought he to have tried, even knowing how many men would die in the attempt? “Give me a sign, O Lord,” he whispered. “Let me know that I was not wrong. . . . ”

He tried to eat the food the doctors brought to him, but his stomach rebelled and he could swallow only a mouthful or two before he was fighting back nausea. He asked for music, for that had always been a source of comfort, but the harpist’s melodies sounded melancholy and mournful, even though he’d requested something lively. He finally slept again, a shallow, uneasy sleep that gave him little rest, and awoke to find his nephew standing by the bed.

“I’ve been waiting for you to wake up,” Henri said. “I have news you’ll want to hear.”

Richard doubted that, almost told Henri to come back on the morrow. But the younger man’s eyes were shining; he did not look like the bearer of yet more bad tidings. “What?”

“I had a message tonight from Isabella. She says that Hugh of Burgundy died at Acre five days ago.”

Richard stared at him. “I think,” he said, “that I’ve just gotten my sign.” Henri did not know what that meant, but it did not matter; his uncle was smiling, the first real smile he’d seen on Richard’s face since he’d been stricken with the quartan fever.

ON SEPTEMBER 1, Salah al-Dīn’s envoy, al-Zabadānī, came to Jaffa with the final draft of the treaty, waiting in a tent outside the town until Richard was carried out to meet him on a litter. He was too ill to read it, but said, “I have made peace. Here is my hand.” A truce was to begin on the following day, to last three years and eight months. The terms were very similar to those discussed in the past, with the crusaders to hold the coastal areas from Jaffa to Tyre. The peace was to include the Prince of Antioch, the Count of Tripoli, and Rashīd al-Dīn Sinān, leader of the Assassin sect. Ascalon was to be razed to the ground and to remain so for the duration of the truce. Richard’s reliance upon the sultan’s generosity was not misplaced; Salah al-Dīn compensated him for the money he’d expended at Ascalon by agreeing that the Franks and Saracens would share the revenues of Ramla and Lydda. Both sides would be able to move freely, to resume trade, and Christian pilgrims would be given access to Jerusalem. The two armies mingled and Bahā’ al-Dīn reported that “It was a day of rejoicing. God alone knows the boundless joy of both peoples.”

Richard remained seriously ill, Bahā’al-Dīn repeating a rumor that he’d died. On September 9, he sailed to